


Colors and Trickery

by unkissed



Series: The Color of Deception [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love, some f-bombs dropped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue is the color of the day you broke Jamie's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors and Trickery

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Colores y mentiras](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926830) by [w3nd1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/w3nd1/pseuds/w3nd1)
  * Inspired by [The Longest Road To Nowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493071) by [ColorfulStabwound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound). 



> Dedicated to and inspired by Jamie, who doesn't give a damn, and Teddy, who changes colors.
> 
> Special thanks to ColorfulStabwound, as always, for letting me abuse their Jamie.

You’re a puzzle piece that has never quite fit into the picture, with your messy turquoise hair and your lavender eyes that make people stare curiously, shamelessly, as if the fact that you’re a metamorphmagus means you don’t deserve the same courtesy as the people staring. And so you stare right back, daring them to say something, often changing the shape of your face, just to give them something to really gawk at.  You’d think magical folk would be accustomed to the sight of changelings in their midst after millennia of co-existence, but even wizards love a good freak show.

 

As you grew up, you spent a great deal of energy learning to control The Change.  You were able to mold your features briefly to entertain your friends or to impress Jamie, Albie, and Lily.  But your hair is another story.  Most of the time, your hair does what it wants to do, which is to garishly announce your emotions to the whole damn world.  It’s not very original either and anybody with some experience in interpreting symbolism can read you easily.  Dull bluish-green means you’re unhappy, and the brightness of your default turquoise is indicative of your degree of happiness.  Red means you’re angry.  Most people would think that pink means you’re embarrassed, which isn’t far off, so you let them believe that. 

 

But in reality, pink is the color your hair turns when you’re alone in your room and you’re rubbing one out, or if you’re lucky (which you’ve not been in quite some time), getting off with somebody. Pink is the color of the tips of your fringe when a certain cocky teenage boy smirks at you in the way that means trouble – in the way that means he’s thinking completely unholy thoughts about you. And pink is the color of your hair when you’re thinking completely unholy thoughts about him.

 

And then there’s purple.  Purple doesn’t happen often.  Your hair hasn’t been purple in years, since a particular young university professor made love to you and had you believe he’d give up everything for you. But now you know that, just like you, your hair can be tricked into turning colors.

 

Colors are ingrained into your memories, perhaps because color is such an intrinsic part of who you are and _what_ you are. 

 

Blue is the color of the day you broke Jamie’s heart.

 

He was fifteen and you were twenty-one. When he confessed his feelings for you, the initial brightness of your hair quickly muted and turned dull. You had suspected for years that James thought more of you than just a god brother or a role model. And by the time he confessed, you’d already known that he didn’t want to _be_ you – he _wanted_ you.

 

Your brow furrowed with grief as you had told him, “Jamie, you know I love you like a brother.”

 

He’d just spilled his heart out to you and that’s all you could give him.  But you knew it wasn’t what he deserved.

 

You had given his shoulder what was supposed to be a reassuring pat, but it came off more like a patronizing gesture and you still want to smack yourself for treating him like a poor little puppy. Because what Jamie didn’t know was that, in the months leading up to that moment, pink was the color you saw behind your closed eyelids when you were alone with your thoughts of him – this Adonis of a boy who you could never allow yourself to have.

 

 

 

Orange is the color of the day Jamie kissed you – a mélange of crimson, infernal anger and searing, bright yellow fear.

 

You were twenty-three, about six weeks into your first semester as the new Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts. You felt out of place – too young to be a teacher, and too old to be a student.  And you worried that Interim Headmistress Oglvie would recognize your inadequacy and sack you.  So you hadn’t even unpacked the boxes of your belongings in your staff quarters because your position didn’t feel secure.  You were sleep-deprived from staying up late marking papers and preparing lesson plans, and it showed in every part of you.  Your hair was often tinged grey at the tips, not from the premature ravages of age, but from constant worry and stress.

 

Of course, Jamie recognized your fatigue. And because he loves you, he felt compelled to do something about it.  You didn’t want to accept his assistance at first – you were afraid that it would encourage unwanted advances and indulge his infatuation of you. But it soon became apparent that you were drowning in work and that you desperately needed help. You woke up one morning to find that Jamie had graded your first year papers the night before, after you had passed out at your desk.  A few nights after that, you were amenable to letting him unpack those boxes for you.

 

It was late.  Jamie’s status as Head Boy afforded him the privilege of being out of the dorms at that hour to do patrols, but it didn’t give him license to be in the staff quarters.  He was doing you a great service by organizing your books, which allowed you time to grade a fat stack of pop quizzes.  So his presence was justified, you’d thought, and you resolved to vouch for him if any of the other staff objected.

 

As usual, you were exhausted, and by this hour of night, your head was becoming fuzzy.  And maybe your sleep-deprived mind could be blamed for your lapse in judgment. You probably shouldn’t have been so close to him, hovering behind to check that he’d alphabetized the books on your shelf in a way that satisfied your obsessive-compulsive Ravenclaw need for orderliness.

 

Jamie turned around and put his hand on your shoulder. “I told you, Teddy. I got this.  Go do what you need to do.”

 

“I just finished grading those damn pop quizzes,” you said around a yawn. 

 

He furrowed his brow with concern and kneaded the muscles of your shoulder.  “You need to sleep. Go to bed – I’ll finish this up and let myself out when I’m done.”

 

You never thought that this reckless kid you grew up with would ever be taking care of you at seventeen.  You left him in the other room and kept the door to your bedroom slightly ajar because you felt weird about shutting him out like a servant.  If letting him get so physically close to you hadn’t been a mistake, this seemingly innocuous act would certainly prove to be a huge one.

 

You didn’t know what time it was, but you knew it was still nighttime when a soft brush of lips upon your forehead woke you up. Half in dream, you thought it was the ghost of your mother or perhaps an angel blessing you. But when you opened your bleary eyes, Jamie was there, sitting at the edge of your bed, hovering over you with his hands on either side of your pillow, casting a shadow in the faint light from the other room glowing behind him.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered, and smiled in a soft way you’d never seen him smile before.  “Just saying goodnight.”

 

Your heart hurt in the same way it did when Jamie was fifteen and telling you he loved you.  You were too sleepy to get upset and push him away. “Goodnight, Jamie,” you said, and you thought you owed him more – you always feel like you owe him more than you can give him.  So you added, “I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”

 

He smirked as he looked down upon you and drawled quietly, “I can think of a few ways you can properly thank me.”

 

You chuckled softly because Jamie never ceases to amuse you with his cheekiness. And there was your next mistake. Perhaps laughing made Jamie think that it was okay to be flirty – you had been letting him get away with it for years now. But there was nothing appropriate about this scene at all and you both bloody well knew it.

 

“Goodnight, Teddy,” he said, lingering there, his eyes twinkling like dark stars above you.  The cocky little smirk on his face soon softened, and he was looking at you with so much want in his eyes that you could feel it burning through you. You didn’t know it yet, but the tips of your hair were turning pink as Jamie was brushing the fringe from your forehead.

 

He knew.  He must have seen the rosy tinge to your hair.  He must have known what it really meant, for he leaned down and kissed you again, this time firmly on your mouth.  And you were paralyzed.  You didn’t want to push him away for fear of hurting him.  You didn’t want to move at all, for fear of inadvertently encouraging him. So you lay there, immobilized with alarm and dread, as the world burned down around you and Jamie melted into you.

 

You wanted it to feel wrong.  You wanted it to feel like you were kissing your brother. But it felt wonderful. His lips moved over yours with purpose and confidence, with an entitlement and command that was all Jamie and everything you loved about him.  You found your lips parting for his tongue and your breath hitching in your chest.

 

His body shifted on the bed to drape over yours. And even through the layers of fabric that separated you, you felt for the first time in your life that you actually fit somewhere – like your body was fashioned to nestle warmly beneath Jamie’s. You moaned into the kiss despite yourself and it was all Jamie needed to start a whirlwind of tossed bed sheets, cast off robes, and ripped open pajamas. 

 

You weren’t frozen with apprehension anymore; you were on fire, and moving your fingers over every inch of exposed flesh you could reach. You let your hands traverse the forbidden territories of his delicate musculature and become lost along the pathways of smooth, freckled skin.  You allowed him the same liberty to explore you, and you never felt more beautiful and adored than beneath his reverent touch.  Every part of you he touched turned a delicate shade of pink to match your hair, and every part of him you touched, you destroyed.  Because, despite all the hands that have touched him, and there have been many, nothing compares to being touched by the person you love – and you had ruined his flesh for others with each kiss and covetous caress.

 

It never felt iniquitous, except in that delicious way that sexual pleasure always does.  But it _was_ wrong. It was wrong for so many reasons - reasons that you had been hammering into your head and Jamie’s very hard head going on two years now.  So you pressed your palm firmly to his bare, heaving chest and you whispered against his lips, “Stop.” It was a meek, half-arsed protest. “Please.  I can’t do this.”

 

And that’s when Jamie shattered. You watched him fall apart and crumble all around you.  He pressed his forehead against yours, held you by your hair, and heaved a long, shuddering sigh. “Don’t do this to me again.”  He sounded so broken, and at the same time, so fed up and angry.

 

“What am I supposed to do?” you pleaded helplessly, feeling the words tight in your throat, “What do you want from me, Jamie?”

 

You could feel him quivering against you. Your closed eyes felt wet with his tears. His fingers tightened in your hair. “I want you to stop lying to me.” His words were pained and frustrated.

 

“Jamie, look at me.  I’m not--”

 

He pulled back and didn’t let you finish. “No, look at _yourself_ , Teddy.  Take a good hard look at yourself in the mirror.  Tell me what you see.  You can’t fucking lie to me.”

 

You didn’t have to look in the mirror to confirm your suspicions.  You knew your hair screamed your desires and your apprehensions and your love – but more than that, your actions had spoken volumes. 

 

You were older now and able to manipulate your appearance much more easily.  And so you swallowed your emotions and grit your teeth and used the malleability of your hair color to send a clear message.

 

“James,” you said, harshly because you had to, “Look at me.  Fucking look at me.” You concentrated all your energy into turning your hair a bright shock of red as you pierced him with a stern glare and said, “I need you to stop this.  I don’t want this to go on.”

 

He shook his head slowly, looking furious and anguished.  He muttered bitterly, “You’re a fucking liar, Teddy Lupin.”

 

He left your rooms with his robes half on under his cloak, huffing in a quiet rage.  And you were afraid that he was leaving your life for good.  Even though you understood it would be for the best, you still didn’t want him to – you never knew life without him, and you didn’t want to know the misery of it.  He slammed your door and you knew the rest of the staff wouldn’t miss the sound. You feared the implications. You couldn’t fall back asleep, so plagued were you with worry.  You worried about Jamie, about your career, about disappointing Harry.

 

 

The next day, Jamie sneered at you as he walked past the staff table in the Great Hall at breakfast.  He snorted sarcastically, his words tinged with bitterness, “Nice hat, _Professor_.” The way he said your title made you wince.  For weeks prior, Jamie had been saying it as if he were savoring it on his tongue and it had made your pulse race.  But that morning, he had said _Professor_ like it was sour, and it felt like a stab in the heart.

 

It was not unusual for the professors at Hogwarts to wear hats.  So it shouldn’t have been odd that you were wearing a fedora today.  But you weren’t wearing it as a fashion statement, nor a mark of distinction above the students whom you barely looked older than.  Jamie was astutely aware of why you were wearing that hat.

 

It was because you couldn’t lie to Jamie, no matter how you tricked your hair into behaving.  He would always see what he wanted to see in the color of your hair. And the hat was your only defense, however futile.  It was a fruitless effort because, no matter the hue of your locks, Jamie would always see right through you. Exactly the way he saw you today.

 

Nobody knows you like Jamie knows you. He has seen all of your colors – every shade and every hue.  He is the last person you want to lie to.  But you keep doing it.  And he knows you well enough to recognize when you’re being less than honest.  He has never lied to you, nor has he ever lied to himself. Perhaps it’s why you love him.  Jamie doesn’t deserve your lies.  Jamie doesn’t deserve you. 

 

He deserves better.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't tag this with an underage warning because 16 is the age of consent in England, and James is 17 here.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All monsters are human](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760639) by [ColorfulStabwound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound)




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